Tides of Fate

by Sean J Leith

  Saul lit a flame in the lantern by his bed to read the note. Saul did not know many written words, but his father used those he knew in the letter.

  My son, today you are a warrior. You are born to lead, your training masters say. Be strong. The greatest warriors protect rather than rule the weak. I will be training in the skies alongside the greatest warrior I ever knew.

  Your father,

  Greln Bromaggus XIV

  Reading his father’s words, he tethered the brown cloak to his armor and lay on his bed. His arms were uncovered; he refused to be ashamed of his marks. Quiet and careful—but not ashamed. He still had to come to terms with his fate. Tomorrow, I am to be exiled. Banished to the Neck of the Seven. I’d rather be dead, Saul thought.

  He wondered what awaited him in the south, where idiocy was rampant, and order absent. Residents of the Vale hadn’t been there since the wars of Cadrayda, the leader of Serpentarius then. Two hundred years past, she attempted to take over the Vale and eliminate the Broken from the land.

  The great warrior, Lokthori—quick as the wind, and deadly as a lightning strike—brought forth the might of Yggranda, cutting the continent in two, leaving the great Fissure between the north containing the Vale and the Torch, and the south containing the Neck of the Seven and the Serpent’s Plateau.

  The only connection between the two was the tether, a small set of carts that carried up to four individuals at a time, across the two-mile wide Fissure along a rope. Made of threads of Vale trees and intertwined with steel of the plateau, it was nigh unbreakable. Attempts were made, but both sides—while hating one another—understood the importance of diplomacy and trade.

  Two ends that hate one another. But why? Being exiled is sending me to my death. They would slay me for going further than the city of Alin. Alin was supposedly a stronghold for the Hydris, in case of war. Both sides were watched, so armies couldn’t cross to mount an attack.

  His father wrote that he was born to lead. “Peh,” he scoffed. A man exiled is a man with nothing—no honor, and no reason to live. His father wrote it not knowing what his actions did to his son’s fate. He was banished to a land he would be killed for existing in. Saul was too proud to finish his own life. Perhaps he would bring combat, fighting the soldiers of the south in a valiant death, like Grawth the Stalwart.

  He could hear the sounds of glory in his mind. The sounds of clashing blades, roars of battle, and the slam of shields echoed loudly. It was as if he was part of it. He felt exile was the path of shame with no glory in it. He was stripped of his place in society, left to wander the south alone. He had no army, no comrades, and no woman to unify with. No woman wanted a disgraced Broken for a husband. The clashing rang loudly, and his imagination ran wild with where he would go and what he could do. You are born to lead, he reminded himself. A ridiculous thought. His father’s hopes were too high.

  Yet even when his thoughts faded, the clashing, yells, and sounds of war still continued. Saul exploded off his bed.

  The sounds are real.

  A rush of flame echoed from outside, and a deafening, guttural roar echoed from overhead. Saul ran out with weapons readied. His people were fighting for their lives as Broken armed to the teeth stormed into his clan. A sharp stream of violet-black serpentine scales flew over his home, like the shadow of death.

  The Dragon landed on the elder’s home, crushing it into the ground. “Where is the heathen!” he roared.

  Saul stood strong and ran forward to the battle he would win, but was grabbed and pulled into an alleyway against the black pitch of night. A powerful plate gauntlet covered his mouth.

  A smooth, resounding whisper came with it. “Do not speak.”

  Saul breathed heavily through his long nose, heart pounding like a thousand horse charge. He struggled, but the grip on him was too powerful. The figure brought him further back, slowly. Is he going to kill me? No, if he wanted to, he would already, or maybe give me to the beast, Saul reasoned. He writhed and struggled, wanting to fight for his people. He heard rushes of flame and the screams of dying men, along with the smell of ash.

  The dragon’s voice barreled through the clan streets. “Traitors of Gadora! Your council member committed treason, and his son seeks revenge! You stand guilty as a clan. Turn him in and be rewarded, or reject me and burn!” Obelreyon yelled.

  Saul saw Red marks on the arms of others, the mark of Kannakash, Urikar, Yggranda, and even Gadora. They had fear in their eyes, buried deep, but Saul could see it from afar. It was fear for their lives that pushed them to betrayal. “Let—me—go!” Saul screamed under the gauntlet.

  “No. You have to stop talking, and come with me,” the voice said.

  “Let me die in defense of my people!” Saul roared. “I will not die a disgraced fool!”

  “They die because of you. Do you want to die with them, or live long enough to bring vengeance back?”

  Saul stopped struggling, but his blood still charged through his veins.

  “Look further than two feet in front of you,” Saul felt a dagger on his neck. “They are going to die, whether you are there or not. You will save no one this way.”

  The blade left his neck, and he was promptly released. Saul slowly turned to see a man—Renalian, surely—with a pale, sharp-featured face lit by the devastating flame from outside the alley. His hair was greyed, woven with white stripes. His armor shone brightly in from the flames, decorated with silver studs and golden rings, icy steel layers, and an ice-blue cloak hung down to his ankles.

  “Who are you?” Saul demanded.

  “No one,” he said with a smirk. “A friend has sent me here to retrieve you, but I do hate kidnapping. I prefer you come willingly.” His bright green eyes shimmered in the flame behind. If you must know, it’s Highwind.”

  Highwind. That name was whispered through the clans during the war ten years ago. “Why help a Broken?”

  “A friend asked for my help, and I am here to give it. I am here because I was called.”

  Saul was bothered by his cryptic nature. Say what you mean, fool. Saul knew better than to challenge a seasoned warrior, though, if Mirakia was any example. “Why must I flee?” Saul growled.

  Two Broken ran into the alley with a battle cry. “There he is!” one yelled.

  Kain threw Saul to the wall and dashed forward with the dagger. He deflected a blade and an axe with the small weapon, and cut both their throats with ease. “Because, I am risking my life to help you. Don’t be a coward and run to a worthless death. Do you choose to run, or do you choose to die?”

  It is cowardly to run, Saul thought. He struggled with the choice. On one hand he could fight a battle to defend his people and die with the honor he sought. On the other, there was a man who challenges his ways to run into exile and cower from his enemy. It tested every part of his being not to stand tall and accept the consequences. His people screamed from outside the alleys as they were carved, cut down, and burned. I should be with them, I brought this upon them. His anger for the Dragon seethed further, eyes burning with revenge.

  My fate chooses that I die, Saul remembered. But a choice stood before him in the form of a man laden with silver studs, plate, and a silver cloak cascading down his prominent figure. I can live long enough to bring vengeance. My father chose his fate, and I will choose mine. He would bring it, whether by his own power, or with an army he could muster. “I will go.”

  “Took you long enough, lad. On the horse. We ride for the Fissure. It will be a long journey,” Highwind said.

  They jumped atop his massive stallion, black hair intermingled with silvers and whites. It was a great beast, running at full speed with both men atop its back. They rode out of the camp through a region of the wall that had been broken and dismantled.

  Through the Vale, Saul watched the blackwood trees pass by, then the far mountains—places he may never see again. The white thistlefogs blew in the wind, flowering only in the deep forest of Obelreyon’s Vale. The moonlight shone ab
ove, full and true. It felt blood red, as the color of the ground in the Gadora tribe.

  For two days they rode, during which Highwind kept fairly quiet. He answered some of Saul’s questions, but didn’t speak to the majority. Kain didn’t know anything about his marks, about the gods, or about the Dragon’s plans.

  “Are you lying to me?” Saul wanted to know.

  “I’m not one for predictions, son,” Highwind replied.

  Son. Who does he think he is, calling me that? Saul hated that he ran from the one who killed his father. He was young, nineteen years, definitely younger than the man who ushered him from his burning home. Saul thought to fall on his own blade, as it was less cowardly than to run from a fight he caused. Why live, as my people burn? Obelreyon wouldn’t dare cross the Fissure. I would be safe. But I’m a coward. That’s all I am. I’m running from my fate.

  “Why are you taking me to exile?” Saul asked. It was strange enough to be taken away by a human of all things, let alone during the night he would be slain.

  “I’ve told you many times, son,” he said with a sigh. “I was called, and I answered.”

  Saul did not enjoy vagueness. “Who called you, then?”

  “A friend. You will see soon enough.”

  Saul questioned further but received no information, which irritated him. They rode across the plains connecting the bottom of Lathyria, the Vale, and the Fissure. Saul dared not go to the Torch, as Broken were killed on sight, rumors said. Open fields rarely seen, filled with tall grass, trees with bristles, and leaves with several points, bushes of black with small white flowers emerging from all sides. He never saw these, never having left Obelreyon’s Vale and the three knives.

  Soon, the Vale was gone, and he would live where he had only heard stories. Some cities of the Neck were lawless; some were so strict they would kill a man for bumping into a guard. Individual cities not bound to a king, only by a city leader.

  What was worse was the Hydris, a slithering, snake-like race with arms and legs, smooth and sometimes scaly skin varying from reds to blues to greens, and snake eyes. A vile set of beings said to have stabbed the Broken councilors and warmaster in the back centuries ago, forcing them to split the continent in two.

  It was separated by the Fissure—a chasm so deep, the bottom could not be seen. The sea flowed through thousands of feet below the surface of the continent, with the rest of the Ocean.

  “Where do you come from?” Saul asked him.

  “A new nation, Ornias, in Renalia.”

  Highwind was no doubt a military figure. His armor was worn in places, but well-made and he was quick to kill even with a dagger. Saul did not dare confront him. He pulled me from the maw of death, as well. Saul was confused of how this man even came to travel here, and how long the journey to Kathynta was; Renalia was a quarter season’s sail away from the Vale. “Is it true that war rages there?” Saul probed him with another question. Obelreyon wanted to conquer Renalia with the aid of Lornak, and Saul wondered if war across the sea would better the Dragon’s chances. Saul wanted to bring his people there as well, but on their own terms, with the Glories at their back.

  “There is. Don’t think it is easily conquered, son.”

  “I am not your son,” Saul growled. The flash of black flames entered his mind once more. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth from the mere thought of the black-scaled Dragon. Now the tyrant not only burned his father, but part of his clan. They burned because of me, and I ran. I abandoned them. Saul wanted to return with vengeance, but he did not know how. He hoped his goddess would guide him, give him the means to free the Broken, so they may rule themselves.

  His father’s fate was false. Saul was skeptical of his own. He was chosen to die, but now he could live. He hoped in exile he could find his path. They camped briefly, and Saul finally decided to wear leather instead of his plate. If he wanted to kill me, he would have.

  * * *

  After several days, the grand chasm laid in the distance. It reached a seemingly infinite distance through a cloud of thick fog, cutting along the land from end to end. A battalion of Broken stood behind a barricade, and behind them stood the cart of the tether and Mirakia Othellun, Warmaster and temple leader for the Oracles, with arms crossed. The last time Saul saw her, she was carving Broken coming for him at the temple in Hero’s Fall; Saul was surprised she came.

  Highwind reined in his stallion, neighing loudly as it lifted its hooves off the ground. He hopped off and removed his right gauntlet.

  Saul followed suit. Each member of the guard followed Saul with their eyes closely. “What is going on?” Saul commanded.

  “You have my thanks, Kain.” With a subtle smile, Warmaster Othellun shook Highwind’s bare hand.

  Saul noticed Highwind also wore a pale white ring—the same as the warmaster.

  “A pleasure as always, my lady.” Kain turned toward Saul, nodding. They mumbled a few more words to each other, but Saul couldn’t hear. “I always repay favors owed.”

  The warmaster smiled at her supposed ally before furrowing her brow and sending a glare toward Saul. “Are you prepared?” Warmaster Othellun asked.

  How could I be?

  Being exiled was the biggest disgrace of his people. He was judged and given his sentence. He had to accept it. Yet, something was strange here. “Yes.”

  “Come with me, Bromaggus,” she said, leading him to the cart as she carried a large sack. Saul followed, nodding to Highwind as he passed. He returned the nod.

  They walked past the battalion through blades and shields and ballistas; those placed at the Fissure stopped all enemies that dared cross the fissure with malicious intent. He waited until they were out of earshot before he spoke up, coming to the dilapidated cart.

  “What is going on here?” Saul whispered. He feared the back of her hand would swat him across his face for questioning, but he had to know.

  “You are being exiled,” she said. Then the warmaster leaned in close, whispering, “If he didn’t pull you out, you’d be dead. You’re so proud that you’d rather die than escape to live. You’re lucky these Broken don’t know you’re supposed to be dead.”

  Saul knew it was true, but what of it? His face screwed into a frown, and he stared into her dark eyes.

  She let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “The people who survived the war ten years ago are those that learned to retreat and cut their losses, rather than wasting their lives.” She stood back again. “He burned our tribe. Not everyone, I might add. There are many that will live. All of this is because of a ridiculous fate.”

  Saul clenched his fists, bearing his teeth in response. Before he could open his mouth, the warmaster stopped him.

  “Don’t you say a word. They died because of Obelreyon’s fear.” She pulled him in by the neckline of his armor. “Do you hear me?” she whispered harshly. “He’s afraid of you.” She let him go and opened the door to the small cart. “Now give him something to fear.” She handed him the large pack, filled with food, water, and other traveling goods.

  Saul walked into the cart. It was covered in moss, slightly rotted, but well preserved. It stayed for two hundred years—Saul was surprised it still functioned. As he closed the small door, the wind blew south, pushing the cart across the chasm.

  Kain and Mirakia watched him as he went. They held up their palms to say goodbye. Each added a salute, pounding their fists to their centers.

  The fog took him and encased the cart, slowly blowing it across the vast chasm. He wondered how long it would take—and if it would get stuck. He sat quietly in the suspended, dilapidated cart, hoping he would reach the other end of the Fissure without fail. White fog was all he saw now—and would be the only thing for miles.

  At the other end of the chasm lay only the enemy of his people, and perhaps, his fate.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gentle Souls, Broken dreams

  Zaedor Nethilus

  Screams of fear echoed from the city streets outside. Z
aedor looked around his home. Cinders and ash fell freely from the flaming ceiling. He donned his armor as quickly as possible. It was disjointed and askew, but he had no time to care. He drew his great blade and ran out of his home ready to defend his people.

  The once beautiful city he knew was disappearing before his very eyes. The fluttering banners of families were aflame with the wild blaze of deception.

  Two battle-hardened men with mace and blade in-hand emerged from the sewers and ran at Zaedor without pause. He deflected two blows with his blade and struck back with a mighty sideways slash that almost carved one man in two, splashing blood upon Amirion’s once white stone streets. He leapt up with blade overhead to strike at the other warrior.

  The man attempted to guard the blow with one blade and strike with his mace, but Zaedor’s mighty blade broke the man’s weapon in two, slicing into his skull like a block of butter as the mace clattered at his elbow. With the men dead, Zaedor stopped to grip his elbow smacked with the mace. It hurt to the core, but he couldn’t sit by while his city was under attack.

  Zaedor looked at his surroundings, only to see the bodies of men, women, and children. The beautiful city was scarred with the bodies of innocents. How is this possible? The impenetrable city of Amiron, sacked? How? To the west and south, he saw a rain of rock and flame crashing into the city from catapults and trebuchets in the fields beyond the city’s walls.

  He had no time to stand around. One objective shot into his mind—the King. The King was the most likely target for the attacks, and Zaedor had to save the crown. Eryndis will go, and we will be at peace, he remembered the king say confidently. He couldn’t dwell on her now, though.

  With swift legs, he ran forth to the grand Blue Citadel. His weapon sliced through shield, blade, and flesh as he charged to his destination. The colors of the banners that flew on the houses were no longer recognizable, either charred by flame or torn apart. Zaedor ducked, dove, and dodged the stones of shattered buildings as they blew across his path.